


Potential Story Prompts

by awkwardsloth



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, apologies for all mistakes I have made, if I'm missing any warnings let me know, only rated it teen for some language, seriously please let me know what i'm doing wrong, throw your criticism at me I'm ready for it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-14
Updated: 2019-05-28
Packaged: 2019-06-27 05:59:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 14,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15679419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awkwardsloth/pseuds/awkwardsloth
Summary: I made a list of prompts that i hope will give a little bit of inspiration to whoever is interested in writing these prompts. I came up with them and know my procrastinating butt will probably never get around to writing them--plus I much more enjoy reading them than writing them. I f anyone actually does use them, let me know; I would love to read what you created. :)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> the last time i wrote a story was in like 5th grade so I am just letting you know that I don't know what I am doing. like how the hell do you even 'tag' a story?

1.) A normal person would have run for the hills by now. They would have thought, ‘Fuck this shit, I’m out!’. Given the two-fingered peace sign and slowly backed away from what you had borne witness to.

But, sadly for your sense of self-preservation, you did not get the hell out of Dodge.

Now, you’re not stupid—because you were most certainly shaking like a leaf on a tree. Buuuuut…..well, sanity be damned, you were also aroused. He looked like the kind of man your brain visualizes whenever you smell the Mountain Lodge Yankee candle.

If you had to pick a GIF to encapsulate your emotions, you would use that clip of SNL comedian Bill Hader saying, “Mark me down a scared and horny!”.

2.) This man. This fucking specimen of a man who looks like Ken doll: sexy automotive mechanic edition. Making you mentally chant, ‘Be strong, ovaries. Be strong.’ Sonuvabitch!

Why? Why are all the hot ones unavailable, gay, or crazy? You are 100% convinced that God is a bisexual asshole. Because he broke the mold with this one—but clearly he forgot to add a conscience because the Adonis standing before you has a bloody knife in hand and your flat mate lying at his feet, motionless and in a pool of her own blood.

The crazy, attractive man looks like the cat that just ate the canary, coughing up feathers: guilty as charged. There’s a get-out-of-jail card if he can think of something clever—and you fear that that ‘something clever’ is making you his next target if your damn fight-or-flight instincts don’t kick in within the next few seconds or so. You highly doubt that he would just let you live if you promised to plead the fifth on all of this….this fucking crime scene that has disrupted your predictable Friday-night-after-work routine. Your shaky intake of breath has punctured the silence in your living room—and this act sadly snaps the American psycho’s stupor of shock. Before you can fully turn on your heels and make an attempt to get outside and signals any neighbors who could be awake at this ungodly hour, the killer in question tackles you to the floor and clamps a big, callused hand over your mouth. He makes panicked shushes in a piss-poor attempt to calm you down—which strikes you as odd. Why would a serial killer give two shakes of a rat’s ass about the emotional stability of his victims? Must be doing it in irony. Like, ‘Oh hush hush, honey. You got nothing to fear! Everything is going to be okay. I’m the most non-threatening murderer you’ll ever meet. No need to fret. It’ll be all over before you know it.’

Fuck _that_ noise. You try to buck him off, putting up as much a fight as you possibly can—but the sick bastard is too heavy; that muscular frame of his is weighing you down and you eventually tire out. Once he reaches the conclusion that you aren’t going to put up a fuss again—at least until you can catch your breath and regain some strength—he does the damnedest thing. He apologizes.

“I’m sorry you had to walk in on the mess. I understand what you’re thinking and know you won’t believe me when I say that this is not what it looks like—but it’s not. That thing I killed wasn’t your friend; your bestie died a while ago. I just ganked the monster that has been parading around in her skin for the past month and a half.

What. The. _Fuck?_

This poor bastard is even crazier than you first suspected! Whatever alarming sexual attraction you had felt towards him upon first seeing him has—thank _gawd_ —dissipated and been replaced with the growing urge to sucker punch him.

3.) Use lyrics from Amber Run’s ‘I Found’ song to guide the plot of an accidentally-falling-in-love story.

4.) Y/N character enjoys pin up/ rockabilly fashion and classic/vintage/retro rod cars. Dean bond’s with them over this and agrees to join them at one of the themed car shows they love attending. Their friendship deepens—Dean at first interpreting his affections for Y/N as familial but comes to realize (with the help of Sam and Castiel) that what he feels is anything but platonic.

5.) Ringing of the hands, combing of the hair with her fingers, and repetitive tapping of the feet. Shaky intakes of breath with short exhales punching the silence. Rubbing the back of the neck as she switches her posture back and forth between erect and slouching positions. She’s nervous and she should be. That adrenaline—that fear pumping through her, manifesting in all of these nervous ticks is irrefutable proof: she’s guilty

6.) Part of me wants to stay silent, keep focusing my disappointed stare on her for as long as possible—make her squirm for the rest of the night. But I know eventually she will crack and go on the defensive if I prolong this tense moment for too long. With a deep breath I ask, “What the hell where you thinking?!” and—what a surprise—she’s flashing me those big damn puppy dog eyes that could give Sam a run for his money. “I thought I could help,” she says with a dejected tone. It’s not just what she says—but the way she says it that is a punch to the gut. Part of me wants to discard my ‘stern parent’ façade and comfort her in my arms—but she needs to learn. She’s not ready for field work yet. Sure, she’s got the physical aspect of it on lock down, but she still needs work on the mental part. I can’t take the risk of her joining us on a hunt just for her to freeze up at the first evil sonuvabitch that crosses her path.


	2. Chapter 2

7.) Knights of Moondoor story based upon LARP and the Real Girl episode. It could be a sort of knights of the round table-type deal where ruler is chosen based on merit rather than lineage. Queen Celeste the Clever (Charlie) gained title through her skills as a cunning tactician/ strategist, skilled swordsmanship, alliance with the Seelie court (she has an “arrangement” of sorts with the princess), and ability to break codes and riddles put forth by supernatural creatures (i.e. sphinx, any of the creatures that belong to the fey genus/species, witches). The house of Winchester has served the rulers of Moondoor for several generations; this servitude is not restricted to the knighthood, but Sam and Dean’s father pushed them into it. Chuck is a scribe with chronic headaches, who self-medicates with lots of mead. Kevin is a translator of languages and sigils/runes/markings; also great at disguises (because Osric Chau’s cosplay skills). Pamela Barnes is a seer/psychic/medium; whatever works for the story. Ash is a doctor/apothecary (because of the ‘Dr. Badass is in’ sign). Ellen and Jo run a tavern. Garth is an excellent tracker and archer (does poorly at close combat but excels at long-range); great at gathering intel on enemies due to his nonthreatening appearance (for this, he belongs to the knighthood). Moondoor ain’t gonna discriminate—they care more about your abilities rather than the size of muscles you can flex. Bobby is a blacksmith and the resident paranoid bastard; built a fencepost with iron, which encompasses the perimeter of his house (can throw the fey farther than he can trust them). Benny LaFitte: knight, former fisherman, former slave for the Unseelie court (Dean rescued him as part of a quest). Rival kingdom of Sheol ruled by Lucifer with the princes and knights (of hell) serving him. Castiel was a soldier in Michael’s army, but defected and joined Charlie’s knights. I need to draft list of subjects who live in each kingdom and their respective roles/duties; demons in Sheol, angels in Michael’s kingdom, hunters in Moondoor. Find Latin word for heaven/ paradise/ Promised Land/ city on a hill for the name of Michael’s kingdom.

8.) ‘Angel with a Shotgun’ song used for a Castiel story about how he will fight and do what it takes to protect those he loves and ‘First Impressions’ song used to generate ideas for a story where spn character and Y/N don’t get along well at first. Halsey, MCR, FOB, P!ATD, DOROTHY, and PVRIS songs can be used to help guide stories.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> another idea for a potential story. has this trope been done before? yes, but i don't give a damn because i'm a sucker for tropes.

9.) The scene opens up on Dean in his element at a strip club. A stripper finishes her set and exits the elevated stage. Dean thinks about how glad he is that the current monster-of-the-week case is finished and he can just unwind—perhaps he mulls over whatever supernatural soap opera BS he and Sam are currently having to deal with. He is pulled out of his thoughts by the steady beats of Joan Jett’s ‘Do You Wanna Touch?’ song reverberating through the club speakers, refocus in his attention on the raised platform. A new dancer enters the scene, playfully dancing to and mouthing the words of the energetic song. This is a first for Dean; usually he has only witnessed performances where the dancer has a more serious attitude, more intent on seducing the audience rather than entertaining for the fun of it. Color him intrigued. The theatrical dancer rouses the crowd with her performance of pole dancing, hand clapping, foot stomping, and lip-syncing. She performs a few more songs, afterwards soaking up the applause—noticing the very enthusiastic standing ovation delivered by Dean. The dancer squints at Dean, trying to examine him before collecting her tips and striding off the stage to the backstage dressing room. The next dancer comes on and Dean finishes his beer, deciding to get a refill at the in-house bar. The bartender has to go collect more of the brand Dean asked for because they were fresh out of it when Dean approached them. As Dean awaits the bartender’s return, the Joan Jett stripper slides up in the bar stool next to him; she is no longer wearing her ‘uniform’, dressed comfortably in day clothes. She and Dean strike up a conversation; at first Dean is under the impression that he’s going to have the pleasure of bedding her, but she brings that notion to a halt when she reveals that she’s from our universe and needs his help on getting back. Dean flashes his ‘I’m tired of this bull shit’ expression.

Possible dialogue: “Well, hey there tiny dancer.”

“Huh…never pegged you for an Elton John fan,” she states. “And what _did_ you have me pegged as,” asks Dean. “A classic rock purist who looks down on the pop genre as a whole, but secretly loves Taylor Swift’s ‘Shake It Out,” deadpans the stripper with a confident, knowing smirk.

This gives Dean pause, eyes widening in shock at her on-the-nose analysis of the astonished hunter. He huffs a laugh, his expression morphing into smirk of appreciative appraisal. “You’re something else,” he remarks with admiration. “Judging by you get-up, I assume you’re on a break or off duty,” he poses as a question, going on to add, “If so, I’d really love to hear how you came up with that stellar performance up there,” ending his questioning with a nod to the lighted stage.

\------

“Okay, I understand where this attitude is coming from, Mr. Grumpy-Gills. I too would be pissed if someone Truman Show-ed me—but you’re kind of being a bitch right now.” “…you just call me a bitch,” Dean incredulously questioned. She responded in kind, “What? Guys can be bitches, too.”

“Like Pansy Division says, ‘He had the dick of death,” Y/N stated matter-of-factly.

“I usually ask myself, ‘What would team free will do?’ and then most times proceed to do the complete opposite—because if I mimicked you altruistic bastards, I would have died within the first five minutes I found myself in this universe.”

“Lucifer is a bitch ass hoe who liked to front that he was ‘hot stuff’ when he ain’t shit,” Y/N proclaimed with fervor.

“Puh-lease. The only crime this little child has committed is being _too_ adorable,” argued Y/N.

“Jack, you precious little angel-baby,” Y/N deadpanned.

“Can I hug you? Is it alright if I hug you? I’m gonna hug you right now,” Y/N squeaked out.

“Stripping made the most sense. There’ no questions asked, which made it easy to get some easy money. It’s not like I could get a job anywhere else without a birth certificate or social security card. I don’t exist in this universe, remember? So I don’t have the necessary documents for any other job.”

Or “So you get zapped into another universe and you become a _stripper_?” Y/N defensively argued, “Well what else am I supposed to do? They don’t ask questions and don’t demand two forms of ID during the hiring process. It’s not like I can apply to Wal-Mart without a birth certificate or Social Security number!” She began to make animated hand motions as she went on to declare, “As a law-abiding citizen, it’s not like I know how to forge a driver’s license like you ass-hats. You expect me to pull those vital documents out my ass?! And also, yes. I’m a stripper; I make my living by shaking my ass to sensual music. It’s not the worst thing a person can do with their life, so drop the judgmental tone _Samuel_. No matter how I act or dress, my body is always going to be subject to the ‘male gaze’ so if I can manipulate it to my advantage, then by god I will!! So _end point_ : fuck you Sam; you need to stop slut-shaming and start slut-appreciating.” Y/N finished her rant with a bitch-face to rival Sam’s whilst he sat in a stunned stupor, an expression that suggested he was mentally asking himself, “…the _fuck_ just happened?”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> instead of finishing stories that i'm working on, i was a problematic hoe and made more writing prompts--no surprise there

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if any of y'all want to build off of any of these prompts and write something, let me know. i would love to read what you come up with

10.) Castiel-centric story revolving around ‘internet age’ song by Jason munday and Alex carpenter. Or a story inspired by the Old No 7 song by And The Devil Makes Three. Use little red riding hood song for a dark!DeanxY/N story and The Who’s Behind Blue Eyes for a Cas story.

11). A story that highlights Dean’s similarities with his muscle car, Baby/ the metallicar; could coincide with the rockabilly!Y/N story.

12.) Ideas for case: gancanagh, dullahan, any lesser-known mythic creatures instead of the usual run-of-the-mill monsters they usually hunt.

13.) Valentine’s Day story: combine elements and plot of Supernatural with My Bloody Valentine movie (both the original and remake versions). Should characters be from both universes or just from spn? Hanniger or Winchester mine? _Who_ assumes _what_ role in the story? Who are the main cast of characters the story centers around? Would Sam and Dean’s dad have been a miner who died of black lung? Change the culprit to a new character or keep the same person as the crazy pickaxe murderer? Keep them human or make them a spn monster (ghost, shifter, skinwalker)? Should the story parody the source material—like how Cabin in the Woods parodies the horror genre, or just make it a serious scary story? Make a joke about how dead men don’t wear plaid and yet the majority of people in the mining town wear plaid and are getting sliced and diced, so that rule doesn’t apply? At the Valentine’s party murder scenes should the victims be nameless or known characters? Gratuitous descriptions of violence or bare minimum of words to help spook the audience? Should lore connected to the origins of the holiday the story centers around be utilized? Will it be a dark comedy with a dash of romance or just straight up horror? Use the folk song (“Ballad of Harry Warden”) from the original movie at some point in the story to inspire plot twists?

14.) “I was short with brown hair and dark eyes. She was tall, blond and blue-eyed.” Concept: twin sisters in either the 40s 50s or 60s compete for the affections of one man, Dean Winchester. One lives in the others shadow both at school and at home due to her not conforming to what society expects her to be. One sister is confident, self-assured, extroverted, popular, a social being who has a knack for networking to elevate her status among others. The other sister is introverted, the Prometheus to the first sisters Epimetheus, bookish, awkward. The gist: parents favor the popular sister because she exemplifies and easily assumes roles and values that society expects her to possess (i.e. adheres to patriarchal demands, preoccupied with boys and honing her homemaking skills) while the other sister struggles with these expectations, being interested in things that are at the time exclusive to boys and men (cars, racing). The sisters have a complicated, complex relationship with one another; they love each other but don’t fully understand each other.

15.)

He knows damn well he shouldn’t be doing this but with the way she was sucking on that lollipop… he was lucky he had held his composure for as long as he did. They were _supposed_ to be scouring the web for lore on their current monster-of-the-week case. But, of course, Dean’s virile libido had other plans for where he would be focusing his attention.

He had been dutifully searching links that matched [insert clue about monster] while Sam volunteered to interview the latest victim’s friends and family—but Y/N pulled his attention to the sound of her obscene/ gratuitous sucking. He was going to nag her for it, her hums of approval from the taste of the sweet treat being far too distracting in the stuffy silence of the 3-star motel. But when his eyes darted in her direction, the snarky rhetorical question he wanted to throw at her died in his throat.

Why did he stop at that Gas’n’Sip? He should have just drove straight to the motel after they finished the autopsy—but no, he had to choose _then_ to stock up on snacks, whereupon Y/N chose to throw in some green candy apple lollipops among other things to tide her over until dinner. She was twiddling the lollipop stick between her thumb and index finger, pulling the hard candy shell out of her mouth every so often to sip some water before continuing with kitten licks that escalated into lascivious glides of the green-hued candy up and down her tongue, ending in hard sucks and moans of the candy in her mouth. It’s no surprise Dean’s mind conjured images of her performing those oral ministrations on something more bitter than sweet—something that began to grow uncomfortably confined in his jeans. Which leads him to his current predicament: unable to focus on the job and unable to take care of a very prominent bulge/ protrusion in his pants, for fear of losing his dignity in front of the one person whose opinion he falsely claims to not give a damn about. He tries to think of sure-fire thoughts to help curb his arousal-airplanes, Joffrey from Game of Thrones, Sam in a bustier for crying out loud! But Y/N’s incessant hums and sucks keep beckoning his attention and he’s reached the point of no return—emphasis on _point._ He weighs his options and settles on risking shame if he doesn’t make it to the dingy bathroom before Y/N notices the repercussions of his “confusing porn with reality” mentality. He finally decides, ‘fuck it’ and the next thing he knows he’s unbuttoning his jeans in the small, sketchy bathroom. Pretends his callused, large hand is her daintier one as he wraps it around himself, the image of her sinful sucking playing on a loop in his head.

Man is he sure thankful that she favors listening to music with headphones over sitting in silence during research. That’s not to mean he doesn’t try to contain himself from letting anything louder than a strangled moan or heavy grunt past his lips after a few moments of stroking and tugging, he reaches that state of euphoria before cleaning up his spur-of-the-moment indulgence and returning to the motel table where they’d chosen to set up camp for research. Before he’s even fully sat down Y/N’s pulling the smaller lollipop out of her mouth to say, “Found something.”


	5. Chapter 5

16) A story inspired by Sandra Bullock’s While You Were Sleeping movie. Y/N saves the life of the man she has had a crush on for months, but he took a hard hit to the head and is in a coma. There is miscommunication with hospital staff and now the man’s family thinks she is his fiancée. However, she is not his special someone; she has never even had the guts to utter a word to him, and now she is caught up in a lie—but that is not even the worst part. She’s pretty sure his older brother, who runs their family owned business, is on to her.

17) Y/N listens to Halsey’s Hold Me Down and the lyrics pull to mind the dastardly archangel Michael’s possession of Dean.

18) We all know the story of Snow White and the huntsman tasked with cutting out her heart—but who instead orders her to flee for her safety. We know of the wicked stepmother who would have her killed for her beauty and the prince who would save her for it, his kiss raising her from the dead. But what if she had never met the prince or shacked up with the seven dwarves? What if, instead of setting her free, the huntsman kept her for himself? Trained her to be more than a damsel in distress?

19) Y/N makes the mistake of wearing a loose, flowing skirt on a windy day—giving dean an eyeful of her lacy underwear. How was she supposed to know this would happen when the forecast and predicted pleasant, sunny weather? Now her cheeks are crimson and she dignity lost—but maybe these unpredictable winds of change have something good in store for her, if Dean’s dilated pupils and flustered behavior are any indicator…

20) not a story idea/prompt, just paragraphs from a wip story to prove i'm no quitter. these are paragraphs for future chapters of The Fanfic that has no Name Because it is Unfinished

Being the child of a pastor, there are certain expectations demanded and assumptions made of you by, well, everyone. You are expected to be a Jesus-loving, bible-thumping rule-follower—and if you fulfill that expectation, then they might assume that you are conceited, stuck-up, fake or boring. Throw in the fact Castiel was blunt, sarcastic, homeschooled and rusty in the social skills department, then you have a lonely teenager with a classic case of the ‘first-day jitters’. His parents had recently moved to Lawrence at the tail end of the summer; they were still unpacking their moving boxes, so it is not as if any of them were acquainted with the area yet. They were strangers in a strange land, his father having been called to fill a position after the local pastor had died in a hit-and-run and his mother—who had homeschooled him for as long as he could remember—resorting to seek work in order to account for the cost of moving the family. The Novak clan had to embrace much change, Castiel the most. An unfamiliar town and church he could handle—but _public school?!_ He was a fish out of water, and oh, how he wished god would send an angel to step on him. All of his subjects were taught in different rooms scattered throughout the seemingly labyrinthine building, resulting in him being nearly late for every class—especially since he had to maneuver through a bustling, uncoordinated sea of strangers. He had lost count of how many times someone had pushed him out of their way for walking too slow, leading to him colliding with another person or wall of lockers. Then, of course, there were the teachers who Castiel now had to grow accustomed with—all with different personalities and teaching styles.

\---

Whatever new job Y/N’s mother had, it had her keeping odd hours; Y/N never knew when her mom would be home, but when she was, it was not much different from her being absent. When at home, she cooped herself up in her bedroom, not making any appearance until around dinnertime and even then, she only made superficial attempts to be involved with her kids. She would use recycled questions that only uncovered topics of little substance, not bothering to attempt to dig deeper into their daily lives.

\---

“So, uh, how is Sam? Is he still crushing after that female wrestler,” Y/N nervously asked. “Hah! Yeah he’s got a poster of her on his wall—gets all piss-y when I tease him for it,” Dean confided.

\---

“Wait wait wait…you mean to tell me he was working the _night moves_ on me,” Y/N questioned incredulously. Charlie softly chuckled before responding, “If that’s how you want to phrase it, yeah, I think he was.” This gave Y/N pause. Dean, her childhood friend who had not spoken to her since sixth grade…was in to her? Dean, who had metamorphosed over the years into some cliché, rebel-without-a-cause bad boy—sassing teachers and chasing skirt, according to the rumors—suddenly wanted to reconnect with her in an intimate manner? The same Dean who had passed her in the school halls all of seventh, eighth, and ninth grade without so much as a simple ‘hello’ or a casual, noncommittal ‘hey’, had she was worth his time now?!

“Yeeaaah…I find that hard to believe.”

“Stop that. You are selling yourself short again. Y/N, you are kind, smart, loyal as a hufflepuff-“

“Charlie, you flaming potter head…”

“Hah! And fracking gorgeous—not pretty or cute, but _gorgeous_. Have you really looked in a mirror lately? If you do, then it won’t be that hard to wrap your head around Dean talking to you. But then again, with your inability to pick up social cues that someone’s flirting with you…it really shouldn’t surprise me. I swear, the only person in this school worse than you at communicating with others is that one kid with a some Catholic-sounding name in my chemistry class. He also comes off as kind of antisocial, with that whole resting bitch-face of his; I sometimes think even the teacher is a little intimidated by him!”

“Cha-charlie, let’s stay on topic we only got,” Y/N pleaded as she cast her eyes upon one of the various black, rectangular digital clocks installed throughout the entire school, it’s red LED lights displaying the current time. “Balls. We only have a minute left before we’re late. Come on; let’s finish this rant later.” Y/N was grateful for Charlie’s propensity to ramble—it helped them avoid awkward pauses in their talks—but unfortunately resulted in many disjointed conversations during passing period. In this particular situation, it left Y/N guessing what Dean’s game was with her. She tried to focus during class, but kept drifting back to her talks with Dean and Charlie.

Why was he talking to her now, after all this time? Had he just forgotten about her? Did he not remember they had once battled foes real and imaginary alongside each other on the school playground? How they confided in one another their school-related worries and hopes for the future? Aided one another in completing an, at the time, seemingly never-ending sea of classwork? Had memories of their bond been pushed to the far corners of his mind, replaced by newer memories of wrestling matches, parties and high school drama? Was she that easy to forget? Was she so easily replaceable that her very existence, in Dean’s mind, corroded away into oblivion, making her a stranger to him? ‘I guess so,’ she wistfully thought while twiddling a mechanical pencil between the index and forefingers of her dominant hand, tapping one end of it against the paper of her chemistry quiz.

She finally decided she would grant Dean the benefit of her doubt. It would be unfair to hold only him accountable for their drifting apart—after all, friendship was a two-way street; she had to own up to not putting as much effort into adapting to the new dynamic in middle school. If she wanted to be his friend once more, she couldn’t dwell on any feelings of abandonment—she needed to be more outgoing. She was curious to learn how much he had changed, wondering if he still had an unyielding love for pie over cake and a penchant for starting prank wars with Sam. Did he still full-on geek out over wrestling star Gunnar Lawless? It would be a shock if he didn’t; that machismo muscle man was part of the reason Dean signed up for wrestling back in sixth grade—at least, that’s what he had told Y/N back then.

\---

“Wish me luck.” “Don’t worry; you’ll do fine. You’re Dean Winchester—not Lose-chester.” He tilted his head, as if asking, ‘what?’ before shaking it and heading to his inevitable doom in English class. ‘Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid _idiot_ ,’ Y/N berated herself. ‘Lose-chester? What kind of lame ass joke is that?! You two were having a perfectly normal interaction before your bitch-ass had to go and make some corny, half-assed pun that wouldn’t even be printed on a Laffy Taffy candy wrapper because it’s such a pathetic excuse for a joke.’

\----

Ah yes, the Shurleys. Adoptive children of neurotic local businessperson and wannabe philanthropist Charles ‘Chuck’ Shurley, who ran his successful construction and demolition company alongside his aloof twin sister Amara. The eldest, and most uptight, of the lot was Michael; third year as football captain and eighth year of being a _huge dick._ He had a one-track mind when he wanted something and wasn’t exactly famous for his warm and bubbly personality; he gave off more of a cold, distant aura with his calculating eyes and clipped tone of voice. His teammates weren’t so much friends as lackeys, joining him in his crusade to annoy the hell out of the wrestling team. No one was quite sure what started the beef between the two groups—perhaps it was the football team’s unmerited sense of superiority and entitlement, maybe the wrestlers’ shared pastime of riling those douchebags up with a prank every so often—they just did not have a high opinion of one another.

Then there was Raphael: enigmatic third child of the group, who seemed to exude an air of superiority—a habit they learned from Michael. However, whereas Michael’s was based in an elitist belief, Raphael’s resulted from a sense of maturity, feeling like they were the only one of their siblings who had any common sense—who didn’t act like a damn fool. Raphael mostly kept to themselves, preferring to focus on their studies as they hoped to become a doctor in the future. Last, and most least in regards to height, was the youngest son Gabriel. He was harmless for the most part—unless you had behaved like a domineering douchebag, then you learned just _why_ he had garnered the name ‘trickster’. He got his kicks humbling faculty and students alike, setting up elaborate pranks to bring a bully’s shame into the light of day. For this habit, he had become popular at school, becoming the go-to person when you wanted a little light-hearted revenge—not free, though. He charged a price, which he used to fund this pastime along with his voracious sweet tooth. He was never without a lollipop in his mouth or a mischievous glint in his eye.

21) again, not a new story idea; just paragraphs for a wip that prove i'm not giving up on it. I am fleshing out plot for prompt 9; these paragraphs will be included in that story. the Y/N character has a bad habit of quoting internet memes; Sam and Dean are often times exasperated with her antics, but end up loving her as well. She grows on them.

 “Well lucky for me, I swing both ways. Violently. With a bat. Come get some, teen wolf,” Y/N beckoned with a smirk.

“In the words of a certain sardonic Scotsman, Castiel has what they call ‘sex appeal’,” Y/N confided to Dean matter-of-factly.

 “I honestly can’t tell if he’s fucking with us or still that obtuse when it comes to humans,” Y/N mused, referring to the most rebellious angel in the garrison, Castiel.

Y/N twirled her fork before stabbing it in Dean’s slice of pie as she maintained eye contact with the affronted/ flabbergasted hunter, raising an eyebrow in challenge to him as she dragged the dish—plate and all—to her side of the table with a clamorous, low squeak before taking a bite. All that was heard at the diner booth was the scraping of fork against plate as the group stared in collective shock. Yep. Dean had fucked up, hitting a nerve with the normally playful woman.

Dean didn’t know what he expected—but Y/N hammered drunk and rousing the bar patrons in an impromptu sing-along of Queen’s Don’t Stop Me Now was not anywhere near the realm of possible scenarios his mind conjured. When Sam had texted him to ‘come quick’, he assumed his brother had made a breakthrough in the case—not get an eyeful of Y/N prancing around the place two sheets to the wind. She had hopped up on the billiards table, strutting from end to end on it before dropping to her knees in the middle and leaning back as she exaggeratedly mouthed the song’s words, eventually raising back up as she shook her head while beginning to strum an imaginary guitar. As dean stared awestruck, Sam approached him, sighing, “Oh thank god, you’re here.” Dean inquired, “Dude, what the hell” as Sam led him to the barstools he and Y/N had earlier occupied. “I tried reigning her in but once she found out the jukebox had Queen, it was sort of a lost cause.” “N-no, man—how did she get plastered?! I thought she didn’t drink?” “Well uh…the bartender gave her a drink on the house—his way of flirting with her, I guess—and she didn’t want to be rude, so she said ‘bottoms up’ and apparently she doesn’t have much of a tolerance,” Sam explained, shrugging as if to say ‘what can you do’. Dean stared at him dumbfounded before his own face morphed into one of surprise as Y/N practically pounced on him, squealing his name as she lazily encased him in a hug. “Long time no see, grumpy green-eyed giant!”

 “Sam and Dean Winchester…to what do I owe the displeasure,” drawled the trapped demon. Y/N cut in, ‘Hey! That’s Sam _fucking_ Winchester to you, ya disrespectful sleazebag.” Dean had a perplexed expression while meeting Sam’s gaze, nonverbally asking, “Is she serious” with his furrowed brow. Sam butted in, “Y/N, I’m flattered but let’s stay on track here.” The demon bemusedly asked, “Got yourself a fangirl there, Sammy boy?” Better double check your food—don’t want another love potion-induced Vegas wedding, now do ya?” Sam clenched his jaw, bitch face activated while Y/N’s eyes squinted, a sneer forming as her voice raised an octave or two to sass, “For your information, not all nerds are so desperate that they would take away a person’s right to consent. Some of us have a little thing we call a conscience. Besides, Sam’s not even my type—looks too much like an anglicized, white-washed interpretation of Jesus. No offense, Sam.” “Um…none taken,” he responded uncertainly. Dean rolled his eyes and huffed, “Focus, people. There’s a literal demon _right_ in front of us!”

“Holy shit. Does this I got a way home? I’ll be free from this crazy-ass universe? _Fuck_ yes! This calls for celebration; Jack, cue the homecoming playlist.” In seconds Ozzy’s ‘Mama I’m Coming Home’ played from Jack’s iPhone as Y/N did a jubilant victory dance, pumping her fist in the air. “You…you made a playlist for this exact situation,” Sam questioned, struggling to not launch into a bitch face. “You bet your leafy greens-and-twigs-eating as I did, you big, glorious moose,” Y/N declared triumphantly. Sam was no longer struggling to keep the bitch face at bay. It was out in full force.


	6. Chapter 6

22) ‘You shouldn’t be doing this with him. He isn’t himself right now. He wouldn’t want to do this with you if he was in his right mind; he doesn’t see you like that. You’re his friend—this could ruin your relationship with him.’ These thoughts ran through your mind as Dean sucked hard on the erogenous points of your neck, making you mewl and pant as you rutted against his thigh like a bitch in heat. You had both had a bit too much to drink at some hole-in-the-wall dive bar—but that wasn’t what had you second-guessing a hook-up with him.

Dean had become a demon after his standoff with Metatron, the well-read bastard stabbing your friend and Netflix-binge buddy in the chest with a sickening squelch that will forever ring in your ears. You still had recurring flashes in your mind of that moment where it seemed that time stood still and the only thing that existed in the universe was Dean’s pained gasp, his face morphing into one of shock and agony.  Although Dean had encountered you in a sketchy roadhouse a mere week after his supposed death—making a deal to not kill you if you travelled with him, so he could make sure you don’t go running to Sam with news of his demonic resurrection—thoughts  of that moment never ceased to make your heart ache. It would fill you with a desperation to protect Dean, keep him in your life by any means necessary. He was the one constant in your nomadic, ever-changing life-style, the one person you could count on and if you lost him…you wouldn’t know what to do with yourself.

He had been palming your breasts as he at some point increased the pressure of his lips and tongue—throwing a few nips and bites into the mix, ensuring you would be sporting a necklace of bruises later.

“De-dean! Maybe we shouldn’t be doing this…here, out in the open,” you uncertainly panted, hands on his shoulders pushing him away a few inches. He looked up and down the dark alley outside the bar before nodding his head, sighing, “You’re right. Not the ideal spot for what I wanna do to you,” his face slipping into a lascivious smirk. Your heart rate picked up at this admission, leading you to fret over what all that entailed as he wrapped his right arm around you, pulling you in the direction of the impala. Since the change, he had begun to shirk his habit of keeping Baby pristine, leaving food wrappers and other such garbage to litter the floorboards. Thankfully, for the muscle car, you had a reverence for her that inspired you to undertake keeping her clean and in good condition. When you chastised Dean about his lost sense of respect for her, he would say something flirtatious about how he liked watching you do it for him—another new development. He had never been remotely flirtatious with you before, but now he seemed to revel in making you blush—you assumed his way of unsettling you, what with him now being a demon and all. Demons loved fucking with humans’ heads.

Now, however—being subjected to his appraising, lustful glances as he drove you back to some pay-by-the-hour motel with furniture that seemed to not have been updated since the seventies—you were quickly starting to believe he had not been just trying to get under your skin. He seemed to have wanted to be a very _different_ kind of pain in your ass. Judging by the impatient speeding of the impala, he seemed pretty intent on fucking you—not fucking _with_ you as you had earlier misjudged.

When he is dry humping your half-naked body into the lumpy motel mattress with tacky floral print, confiding, “wanna feel you; wanted to have you like this for too damn long,” you begin to think, ‘maybe he does see me like that.’ After he’s buried his fingers in you, his mouth going to town on your clit, you stop giving a shit about box he would checkmark for ‘species’; with the way he’s worshipping your body, your convinced human Dean won’t be too disappointed in your lack of willpower. When he mutters, ‘too much of a fucking coward before’ your assumption is proved true.

23) She could gaze into those viridian green eyes for days—lose herself in the vibrant forests contained within those orbs. When she gazed into them, she couldn’t help but think of the temperate forests of Oregon and Washington, where the earthen floor is littered with fallen leaves, rocks, and moss. She was probably just over-romanticizing them, but to her they seemed to be shaded the most intense, lively green hue—her favorite color. If she was on a hunt in an arid, dry town of the southwest all she had to do was fix her eyes upon Dean’s and it was like she was standing barefoot in a grassy meadow.

She hated having to tear her gaze from his eyes, but if she didn’t then he might be apt to assume she had something on her mind—or ask her if something was on his face. Then she would be subject to _his_ gaze, having his attention placed upon her—his discerning eyes with their direct eye contact focused on her causing her to squirm in place and struggle fighting a blush. It was no easy endeavor for her to meet his gaze unabashed whenever they spoke with one another, her finding it far more appealing to feign a glance that suggested she was taking stock of her surroundings or examining something of interest on her phone. His gaze was just far too potent, the confidence and sincerity held within it reducing her to feel as if she were a shy, submissive schoolgirl with a crush that bore no chance of being returned or taken seriously. Therefore, when she wanted to admire those jewels of emerald, she had to sneak glances when his attention focused on anywhere but directly on her.

Unfortunately, Dean had a habit of studying her face quite often, seeking her opinion on a hunch he had during a case or gauging her reaction to a joke he had made. At this rate, she would have to resort to covertly taking a picture of him if she wanted to continue ogling those vibrant irises. The only other option was subjecting herself to the full force of his piercing gaze. The last time she did that, her panties were soaked in under 15 minutes, her face flushed—leading Dean to assume that she was coming down with a fever, ordering her to lay down and rest while he went all “mother hen” and doted on her. The authority in his voice when he ordered her to not strain herself was an excellent contrast with the gentleness in his forest greens alight with the fire of worry. If her will was stronger, if her personality more bold…then she might not have been as surprised by the events that would transpire. Nevertheless, alas, she was naturally shy and meek despite her efforts to fool others, and herself, into regarding her as an outgoing, tough-as-nails hunter. She had done a swell job until meeting Dean Winchester, those beautiful green eyes she was so enamored with unnerving her, making her feel as if he could see right through her act. She would learn that those eyes saw her for what she was: a submissive who needed to learn it was rude to not look someone in the eye when they’re talking to you—especially since they enjoyed admiring the beauty in her eyes as much as she did theirs. Dean would teach her, oh, how he would _teach_ her.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fleshed out prompt 11) A story that highlights Dean’s similarities with his muscle car, Baby/ the metallicar. This is inspired by Power Under Her Foot: Women Enthusiasts of American Muscle Cars by Chris Lezotte.

There is much to be learned about Dean through the examination of muscle cars and his relationship to them. Dean has similarities with muscle cars. He is at times almost like a human personification of the muscle car, with his younger brother Sam being, in some aspects, more like the pony and retro incarnations of the muscle car—a younger, more practical version in contrast to the classic. The muscle car gives off a persona similar to the one Dean emulates when on a hunt. Like a self-assured individual the muscle car stands its ground, holds its head high, looks you in the eye and flexes its muscle; it’s bold, open, cocky, arrogant, and never shows fear; it swaggers, sashays, struts, flaunts and teases.

When you turn your car on, does it return the favor? The muscle car, like Dean, sure does. However, it’s not just the muscle car in general, but one in particular that does this. The muscle car that has been his home, that he has affectionately nicknamed ‘Baby’, attracts the attention of women with its eye-catching, distinctive beauty and loud, tough engine. Dean and his Baby are both flashy, fun, sassy, and sexy. Baby is everything Dean, at first glance, seems to be: a vehicle with attitude; bold, charismatic, hot, wild, assertive, and untamed with a mean machine that commands attention—providing the excitement a woman seeks. Baby serves as an indicator of Dean’s sexual prowess. The unique sound of a muscle car—throaty, roaring, and rumbling—is similar to Dean’s voice, especially when he commands attention or gives an order. Both offer excitement, adventure, thrills and pleasure. Both empower women—the car through its presence making the woman visible, easily noticeable on the road, Dean through treating her as an equal—or superior, when in the bedroom. Both have no problem being handled and taken care of by a woman—the car, because it is an inanimate object, Dean because he’s a kinky bastard who starves for affection in his hard, dangerous life.

Many people consider automobiles to be their outermost layer of clothing and reflect their personality. For Dean, Baby helps give the impression that he is adventurous, brazen, daring, spirited, spunky, and unique. This helps in his sexual life, painting him as a confident, strong, powerful, ostentatious risk-taker that commands attention and respect. In his youth, Dean appeared as a model of youthful, tough and reckless masculinity—often dismissed as a ne’er-do-well troublemaker, much like the teenagers who first drove the muscle car in its heyday. The car is distinguished by its defiant stance, low roof, slab-sided doors, snarling snout, and rubber-burning rear-wheel drive. It could be crude, rude, and unsafe; a violent, virile catalyst car that is pushy, obstinate, obnoxious, and brash, earning a reputation as a fast-paced “bully of the road” that could be difficult to handle…everything Dean could be to his enemies. He was an imposing figure to the supernatural—much like how the muscle car was an imposing presence on the road, being anything but cautious and conventional, like Dean’s life as a hunter. But that wasn’t who Dean is at his core.

He and the muscle car each exude masculinity at first glance, but upon further research are surprisingly feminine—having curves in all the right places. The muscle car was a rousing and raucous means to masculinity, helping to combat against/offset Dean’s delicate, almost feminine, features and his weaknesses. The car was a symbol of rebellion, individuality, virility, audacity, sexual prowess, masculinity, proficiency and power; it was Dean’s shield. With Baby, he could be an individual with panache, bravura and exceptional sense of style—he could be Batman, a rock star, a cowboy. He could shape himself into what the muscle car became an icon of: American strength, style, and power. Of course, it could also take away. The muscle car helps the driver escape from domesticity—something Dean secretly yearns for but believes he cannot have, thanks to the hunters’ life. He wants that apple pie life that young men in the car’s heyday tried to break away from by driving the car. The act of driving represents what it means to be free, but Dean’s driving is not an act of freedom; he drives to continue participating in the hunting life he feels chained to. Baby, as a muscle car, may be the epitome of freedom and independence—but if so, then why did Dean not drive her when he lived with Lisa and Ben? When he joined back with Sam, he broke away from the domesticity he had with Lisa and put the chains of the hunting life back on. I believe it is because he could not fully be his true self with Lisa in that apple pie life—he did not feel free to be all of himself, so he did not drive Baby. He wants domesticity, but only with his family; any other way and he won’t be free, he won’t drive that American muscle which represents independence. The muscle car, Baby, was locked in a garage shed because Dean forced himself into that apple pie life at his brother’s wishes—it wasn’t _his_ true choice. He forced himself to try and be happy, to not dwell on the loss of his brother—locking down his emotions, refusing to let them free. He _chose_ to hunt when he got his brother back, he used his free will and switched Baby’s ignition. The muscle car is only freed from that garage when Dean feels free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thoughts on the car: The reason dean no longer has stock parts (i.e. his engine) in Baby anymore is because of the crash she endured from the semi-truck; certain parts were probably just beyond repair—at least for Dean’s abilities, since he was fixing her up in Bobby’s salvage yard that is kind of secluded. He lacked the heavy machinery he would have needed to repair certain things. He probably had to order parts to Bobby’s house in order to repair certain things. He drives a classic muscle car, not a pony or retro. Would he take Baby to car shows or conventions if he lived in an apple pie life?


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i have had this stuff written for quite awhile. i have some more stuff i will post tomorrow

**24)** Everything about Y/N during sex was soft: her silky hair and smooth skin, the quiet and breathy moans and whimpers Dean pulled from her when he played with her clit… The only time he got more than the soft mewls and grunts out of her was when the pace was rough and hard—or when he did that thing with the thing. Now _that_ had her squealing like mad, followed by her kissing the breath out of him as she playfully tugged on his hair. He enjoyed it when she assumed the ‘big spoon’ position, snuggling up behind him or at his side to plant feather light pecks on his neck and shoulder, her hand rubbing his torso in a repetitive, circular motion before tightening her grip on him and drifting off to sleep.

He loved her softness—because he was the only person who she let experience it. To everyone else she was a badass hunter who threw her punches hard and her whiskey shots harder. She swore like a sailor and spat out sarcasm as if it was her second language; she had a chip on her shoulder and an attitude the size of Texas when Dean first met her. At first glance it seemed like ‘vulnerability’ was a foreign concept to her—so when Dean first bedded her it came as quite a mighty fine surprise to him how gentle she kissed him—how carefully she cupped his face in her hands callused from digging graves.

Her personality, the manner in which she carried herself, the way she mixed with other hunters—it was all coarse. Why would she treat Dean any differently? In time, he learned that she needed someone to be tender with—to help chip away that rough exterior and reveal the delicate beauty hidden away in an effort to protect herself. The hunting life ain’t easy.

With Dean, she was all soft smiles and gentle touches—a stark contrast to the snarky remarks and middle fingers aimed at others. She was a bit of an asshole to others but sweet on Dean. In the bedroom, Dean would dare say that she was reverent of him, showering praises both sexual and nonsexual on him between kisses that she dragged further and further south. Contrary to his self-deprecating opinions of himself, Y/N seemed to treasure him as if he was some precious creation that needed protection and love, treating him as if he was the most important thing in all of creation. She was affectionate with him in a way she desperately tried to lead others into believing she couldn’t be; until she met Dean, she had done an excellent job of concealing her gentler nature from others, for fear of being perceived as weak or incapable of getting the job done. Dean was hooked on her softness—but more so on the knowledge that only he could pull it out of her.

25) Dean goes to Endverse, and everything happens like it does in the episode. The only difference is Endverse!Dean has a special lady friend who he’s more involved with than the other women at camp—at times being possessive. Flash forward to present time line and Dean crosses paths with that same woman. How is he supposed to explain to her that he has met her before, in a possible future crafted by angels? Comical drama ensues.

26)  Neither one of them could _fucking_ believe it—not in a million years would either of them have thought they would find themselves in this situation _again_. The Winchesters had a case……at a goddamned Supernatural convention. Well technically it wasn’t _strictly_ a convention for those books that had become the bane of Sam and Dean’s shared existence—but the case so far _had_ revolved around events concerning those damned ‘Winchester Gospels’. Said events were taking place at some convention that showcased a whole variety of events pertaining to different things such as comics, anime, games, and books with cult followings—and guess which category the Carver Edlund books fell under.

The vics’ deaths had left the convention attendees who were in the know skittish—but the majority of attendees were oblivious to what had transpired, so when the brothers had first tried posing as FBI agents…everyone assumed that they were just _really_ dedicated cosplayers, feeding them bullshit that in no way pertained to the case. So, the brothers had decided they would need to take drastic measures if they wanted real answers; they would need to earn the trust of the attendees through common ground, a shared interest—they would have to cosplay…as themselves. Chuck help them.

The day after their usual fake aliases failed them, the boys had split up to gather info on the newest victim quicker—Sam questioning the family, Dean snooping around the morgue. They had planned to meet up at the convention afterwards, to attend the events pertaining to Supernatural and try to gather more info by blending in and bonding with the other attendees—which is where Sam was currently headed, after he stopped by the pay-by-the-hour motel he and Dean were roosting in, to change into his casual clothes. He usually didn’t put much thought into what he wore—not since he was a kid, when he worried about classmates teasing him for his clothes either not fitting, smelling unclean, or looking ratty with holes in them. Thanks John Winchester.

After shedding his ‘monkey suit’, as Dean disdainfully nicknamed their somewhat formal attire, Sam rode in an Uber car to the convention center. Riding passenger in any car other than the impala always felt a little weird, but an Uber was better--and easier on Sam’s conscience—than carjacking someone, even if he had felt a bit claustrophobic in the backseat of the black sedan. Sam currently sported dark brown boots, denim jeans, a tartan-patterned button-down shirt and a tan canvas jacket with plaid inner lining. He was scanning the crowds, looking for his brother when he heard someone approach him from behind, greeting in a deep, throaty voice, “Hello, Sam.” He turned around and his eyes nearly bulged out of his head. His brother—his brother was dressed as-as- _as Castiel!_

“Dean…what the hell are you wearing,” Sam asked incredulously. Dean shrugged his shoulders before nodding his head down at himself as he limply raised his arms a little before dropping them back down to his sides. “I’m Cas,” he stated in a tone that suggested he was thinking, ‘isn’t it obvious?’. “Uuuuhh, yyeeeeaaaaaahh…,” Sam drawled while beginning to gently nod his head, “aheum, yeah I can see that—y’know you could’ve just worn your regular clothes, right?” A beat of silence passed in which Dean pursed his lips before responding, “mmhmm,” in a deep rumble. He had not.

In fact, he thought they were supposed to take one from the cosplayers’ book and go all out—which is why he is surprised when he sees that Sam is not covered head to toe in plaid and toting a laptop while lugging around a small library. As he’d said in the past, Dean was an ‘all in’ kind of guy. He tried to justify his misassumption by saying, “Well Sammy, nerds love commitment, and this,” he emphasized, gesturing to himself, “is commitment,” before striding off in an attempt to win the argument by having the last word on the matter. Sam let out a huff of exasperation, pursing his lips and shaking his head and he began to follow Dean to the section of the convention center showcasing the Supernatural events.

This was going to be a _long_ case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> number 26 was going to be longer, explaining what went down on the case, but i knew if i wrote that it would take me forever to finish. whoever wants to take the prompt and use it for a story, more power to you--just let me know if you do. i would love to read what you come up with :)


	9. Chapter 9

**27)**  Dean pinched her left cheek, a warm tear straying from the corner of her eye to meet his thumb. He had her backed up against the wall of some dingy three-star motel that she had tracked him to—hoping to convince him to return to the bunker by playing on his loyalty to family and friends. It didn’t work. Instead of being able to ‘pierce through the inky black veil of the mark’s influence’, Y/N had only succeeded in pissing Dean off when she pleaded for him to return for, if not her sake, then Sam’s. However, his rant about being ‘back in black’ didn’t end with him renouncing his role of selfless and caring older brother to Sam, shirking his former identity as the Righteous Man who lead Team Free Will. He chided Y/N for her naivety in thinking she could talk the newly made Knight of Hell into ‘getting the band back together’ as he phrased it, teasing her for wanting her best friend back—he was delighting in shattering her hopes of that coming to pass.

He called her out on her unrequited crush for him, teasing and taunting her by confessing that the old Dean new about and pitied her for it and the new, darker version of himself found it hilarious how pathetic she was, having never had the guts to confess when it was so obvious. He commented on how sad it was for her to have acted as his wing-man in the past, having helped him bed woman after woman instead of mustering up the courage to make a move on him herself, afterwards confiding how many women he’d been with since waking up with black eyes.  He derived a sick pleasure watching the tears that were slowly streaming down her face in fat, wet droplets. At first, he had wanted to beat her black and blue for daring to come find him, her hope and optimism seeming obnoxiously infuriating to him. Now though, he was quite enjoying wiping the determined look from her face, watching it crumbled into a dejected, forlorn expression. A wicked thought struck him.

“Ya know what? Part of me wants to gut you like a fish—but I think I’ll let you live; I’m having too much fun making you look like you just saw the ending of ‘Marley and Me’ for the first time. However, I can’t just let you go running of to Sammy dearest, now can i? No, I think I’m gonna keep ya around.”

If her heart was beating fast before, it was practically going into tachycardia now; Dean’s menacing tone and the calculating expression he cast upon her did not bode well. Like a curious fool who knows they shouldn’t ask—but does anyway—Y/N meekly exhales, “Wh-why?”

“Oh sweetheart,” Dean drawls as he leans into her, eyeing her like a predator does its prey as he raises a hand to cup her face and run his thumb across her bottom lip, “if I told ya, I’d ruin the surprise.”

Y/N didn’t know whether to dread this ‘surprise’ or pray for its swift arrival. Either way, her heart seemed to skip a beat as she gazed into Dean’s eyes before her body shuddered in terror as those captivating sage orbs flashed inky black.

 **28)** Tat-tat-tat tat-tat-tat tat-tat goes the sound of Y/N’s blue mechanical pencil a she repetitively taps it against the uncomfortable metal and laminated wood desk. She’s desperately awaiting the end of fifth period. The agonizingly glacial movement of the classroom clock’s hands bring her closer to a chance of respite from the nuisance sitting behind her. For the past ten minutes said nuisance has been pelting Y/N’s head and back with miniscule pieces of rolled-up notebook paper. You would think the teacher might have noticed by now—but the bespectacled gaze of 65-year-old Mrs. Green was hyper-focused on papers she needed to finish grading by the days end. The school principal was a real stickler for keeping grades as up-to-date as possible.

Y/N had tried ignoring the aerial bombardment of paper missiles, hoping her assailant would lose interest after failing to produce a reaction from Y/N. That had not been the case. Instead, he increased the frequency of hits to Y/N’s head, pieces of paper catching in her long (hair color) hair that draped down her back. The nuisance who seemed bent on riling Y/N up—the thorn in her side, the bane of her existence—was the annoyingly cocky, notoriously promiscuous and frustratingly beautiful resident school bad-boy: Dean Winchester. Ugh, just the mention of his name caused Y/N to roll her eyes and paint a grimace upon her face. Two months ago, Dean was unaware of Y/N’s existence, passing his time sassing teachers and charming the clothes off any and every girl with a pretty face and body. Then out of nowhere and for reasons unbeknownst to Y/N, he starts paying far too much attention to her than she’s comfortable with. He began to pester her in the class they shared—pelting her with wads of paper, tapping his pencil or foot too loud, drumming his fingers against his desk, blowing puffs of air near Y/N’s ear, incessantly clucking his tongue before blowing a raspberry to announce his boredom. The only reason he got away with these irritating idiosyncrasies was that Mrs. Green was becoming hard of hearing—that, and Y/N didn’t want to give him the damn satisfaction of seeing her crumble under the frustration and tattling to the teacher. Even if she _did_ rat him out, it would only inspire him to be even more of a bother. There was also his presence in the hallways to consider.

It’s like Dean would go so far as to purposefully knock Y/N’s textbooks out of her arms and onto the floor when they bumped shoulders in passing—he wasn’t some quintessential 1950s alpha-male-jock bully. Sure, at times it felt like he reveled in tormenting her—but Dean’s intent wasn’t to hurt Y/N physically or emotionally; just annoy the ever-living _fuck_ out of her. He wasn’t a bully; he was a _pest_.

He seemed to delight in raising Y/N’s blood pressure, in tormenting her with his mere presence. According to rumors that abounded throughout the school, he used to spend passing period deflowering his flavor-of-the-month girlfriend in the janitor’s closet. Now, however, the lusty bastard chose to impede Y/N’s journey to her classes—blocking her locker by leaning against it while chatting up a potential hookup or conversing with a friend. Y/N could have sworn he made eye contact with her a few of these times—challenging her to _make_ him move. She’d been tempted—but Y/N doubted she could be able to shove the 6-ft-2 hulking mass of muscle and teenage hormones out of the way, regardless of how fired up he got her. She wasn’t even free from the charismatic cockroach during lunch period.

There was a nice secluded alcove in the school library where she enjoyed eating her lunch: replete with two beanbag chairs and lined on all sides by bookshelves, an opening between the third and fourth shelves that were chest level to an average-sized person when standing. Y/N guessed that Dean must’ve seen her scurrying off to her hiding hole one day because he had interrupted her peaceful dining the other day, plopping down into the unoccupied second beanbag chair and proceeding to crunch loudly on a bag of potato chips while he spread his ridiculously long legs out—taking the majority of room in the small alcove. Y/N had to bring her knees close to her chest while trying to look anywhere but at Dean’s denim-clad crotch which seemed pointed right at her. She couldn’t eat her lunch fast enough.

Y/N was snapped out of her reminiscing of the past month and a half of torment when she realized she didn’t hear crumpled paper whizzing through the air towards her. The nuisance’s seemingly endless stream of notebook paper bullets had finally stopped but Y/N waited to breathe a sigh of relief—doing so would give Dean the satisfaction of knowing he got to her.

At last, the bell signaling the end of fifth period and beginning of passing period rang loud, shrill, and true—sending students into a unanimous frenzy of collecting personal belongings and making the manic exodus out into the increasingly crowded hallways of Carver Edlund High School. Y/N had tried to be one of the first students out of the classroom but being seated at the back of the room always put a damper on her plans.

Only two more classes left and she wouldn’t have to see Dean’s unfairly perfectly chiseled mug until tomorrow, Friday. As she hurried to her locker, having to slither past the bodies of sluggish students, she couldn’t help but feel like someone was tailing her. She huffed a breath of annoyance at the thought of who it more than likely was, hoping against hope that she was just being paranoid. Alas, as she reached her destination and unlocked the black metal locker door the insufferable pest sidled up alongside her, leaning one flannel-clothed arm against the wall of lockers to Y/N’s left.

“I don’t know if you’re aware, but you uh, got some pieces of paper in your hair,” Dean matter-of-factly drawled.

The _audacity_.

Y/N whipped her head to him, fixing him with a squinted gaze, mouth slightly agape. Trying her damnedest to convey a nonverbal ‘Are you fucking serious?’ before letting her face morph into an obviously superficial sickly-sweet smile. In a voice as sweet as honey she asked, “You’re thicker than a jar of molasses, aren’t you?” before resuming peering into her locker, in search of next period’s assigned textbook. She quickly combed her fingers through her hair, flipping it back behind her shoulders afterwards. As she reached for the necessary text, she felt Dean’s hand brushing past her jaw and pointing out, “You missed a strand,” before tucking the stray piece of her behind her ear. She could feel his eyes intensifying on her, leading her heart rate to quicken and cheeks flush a bright pink.

Yep. He _definitely_ delighted in raising her blood pressure, if the cocky, knowing smirk Y/N caught in the corner of her eye was anything to by.

With an indignant huff, the flustered girl slammed her locker shut and hightailed it to her sixth period class. Just two more classes and she’s free pf him for the day—two more classes! Where did he get off, thinking he could lay one of his filthy perverted hands on her? The same hands he had been rumored to have used to finger Rhonda Hurley under the football bleachers.

That _pest._

That _nuisance._

Just because everyone else fawned over his good looks—of how dreamy Dean is with his big strong biceps, plush lips, and long eyelashes that drew focus to his ethereal emerald irises…that didn’t change who he was under all that pretty packaging: an insufferable playboy with an annoying, cliché devil-may-care attitude! Right. Y/N saw him for what he was; she wasn’t about to part like the red sea when he walked down the hallway just because he was popular and easy on the eyes and—rumor has it—able to bring a girl to her knees with his hands.

Ugh—those hands that had the nerve to brush her hair behind her ear. That pest. That nuisance. That disgustingly beautiful garbage angel!! With his piercing green eyes and plump lips that are rumored to make a girl see fireworks with her eyes closed. Hell would freeze over before Y/N kissed him. She didn’t _want_ to kiss him; she wanted to _slap_ him. Slap him _hard_.

Y/N had trouble sleeping that night. Her mind kept drifting back to that beast of burden brushing her hair behind her ear. God, she still felt the phantom memory of his hand, his fingertips grazing her cheek and tracing the curve of her ear. The thought of it had her squirming. No matter how hard she scrubbed that part of her body during her pre-bedtime shower, she couldn’t erase the feeling of him. It’s as if a part of him had seeped into her skin. She wanted to _slap_ him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not finished with number 28; will post the continuation of it tomorrow


	10. Chapter 10

Welp, she slapped him—and now she’s been sentenced to Saturday morning detention tomorrow. Fan-friggin’-tastic. It had happened in the library during lunch period. She understood it was wrong to slap him—what he did was an accident—but in the heat of the moment Y/N had lost her head, letting weeks of frustration from putting up with his antics consume her and she just…snapped.

She had been working on homework from some of her morning classes—so she wouldn’t be so bogged down with it all over the weekend---when Dean swaggered in with his usual cocky grin and a ridiculously over-sized red slushee in hand. Like, seriously, it was the monstrous-type size of drink that you could only purchase in the good ole diabetes-and-overweight-crisis U.S. of A.;it was as if the convenience store he bought it from had seen McDonald’s largest fountain drink size and said the, “hold my beer,” meme in challenge to the fast food chain. Of course, Dean just _had_ to come pester Y/N—like he didn’t have anything better to do that day. However, this time he decided to amp up the aggravation.

He hovered behind her, left hand supporting his weight on the table as his right handheld the slushee he was obnoxiously slurping on before asking, “What’cha doing?”

“Homework. Obviously,” Y/N gritted out.

“Feisty today, aren’t we? Although you are kind of feisty _every_ day…” Y/N sighed, “Look I really don’t have time for your bullshit today, so if you could be so kind as to fuck off—" “What are you talking about? I’m a joy to be around!” Y/N scoffed, twisting her torso so she could look behind and above herself to stare Dean in the eye and counterargue, “No. You’re not.” Dean’s grin briefly fell from his face for a moment before it resumed its place, Dean retorting with a cock of his head, “Is that so? Because I could of sworn, I was growing on you.” They maintain eye contact for a millisecond longer before Y/N rolls her eyes and refocuses attention on the homework she was nearly finished completing. Meanwhile, Dean is still looming over her shoulder, slurping away at that damn red slushee without regard for her need to concentrate. That slushee, being the size that it is, would grant Dean the ability to effortlessly annoy Y/N by standing there all lunch period sucking away at it. The realization of this has just makes the sound of Dean’s strained slurping of frozen soda that much more aggravating. Damn it—she can’t stand it anymore!

In one fluid motion she pushes herself up and away from the laminated wood table, meaning to gather her papers and go hide out in the girls’ restroom until fifth period—but this mission is aborted as she feels a cold, sticky substance cascade down her backside with some of it probably spilling onto the chair she sat in. as she swivels around to meet Dean with a shocked, accusatory glance she can feel some of the slushee seeping down into her jeans and underwear. It is covering her lower back and ass—oh, now her upper thighs, too. Dean is frozen in place, his mouth hanging wide open and eyes seeming bulge out of his skull as his now empty plastic fountain drink cup lies forgotten on the library’s beige, carpeted floor.it all seems to happen in slow motion. His lips seem to quiver, trying and failing to string together a sentence. Before he can gather his wits, the fresh sting of Y/N’s open palm meets his left cheek—the sudden force of it making him feel the need to slightly correct his footing so he doesn’t stumble. As Y/N’s eyes begin to water and Dean brings a hand up to rub his abused cheek, the librarian is charging at them and escorting the pair to the principal’s office, reprimanding them along the way. The short of it is, they were separated into different rooms to cool down, they were each found guilty—Y/N of violence, Dean of property damage—and were ordered to attend Saturday morning detention. Y/N spent the rest of the day mentally cursing Dean—livid that he got her in trouble and embarrassed her in front of the students present during the library skirmish along with those in the hallways who saw the pair being dragged to their imminent doom. All those people who got an eyeful of her cherry red backside, who would gossip about her slapping the school’s favorite bad boy. God, she couldn’t fathom why her peers were so enamored with that _ass_. The ass in question seemed absent the rest of the day, leaving Y/N to stew in surmounting contempt as other students seemed to stare at her and whisper.

The principal didn’t give her the mercy of calling home for a change of clothes; the lunch period was ending, so he ordered her to pick some of the clothes from the lost-and-found bin in the attendance/reception office. There were slim pickings for articles of clothing that appeared clean and didn’t smell. Y/N was starting to see why the middle-aged man got his house egged and covered in toilet paper on Halloween.

Dean did a stellar job of putting her in a sour mood, which only began to wane when she laid down in bed around 8 in the evening, emotionally exhausted from the whole ordeal. Of course, it reignited when her alarm clock began blaring at _seven in the morning_ on the _weekend_. So here she is, sluggishly milling into the classroom of some elective class the Basketball coach, Mr. Hines, probably did a half-assed job at teaching; said coach was currently overseeing today’s detention. Saying that was a bit of a stretch, as the coach was currently reading some sports magazine as he sat at his desk, one hand flipping through the magazine’s pages as the other supported his head while he leaned his weight on the desktop. Detention would last half a school day, from 8:30 AM to noon, so Y/N decided she might as well get comfortable. She took seat in the back corner of the room, parallel to the door leading out in the hallway; it gave her a slight reprieve from the gloom-and-doom aura of detention as the wall to her right was lined with windows, giving her a view of some trees and flowers around the outdoor benches available for student use during lunch period.

Y/N’s fellow “inmates” began filing in as the start of detention grew near, with Y/N’s tormentor bringing up the rear. The four or five students who entered before him scattered about into their chosen seats, but of course Dean chose to make a beeline for the seat to Y/N’s left. Y/N rolled her eyes with a huff, moving to switch seats, but halted as Dean sincerely, and in an uncharacteristically nervous tone, blurted out, “I’m sorry.”

She leaned back in her seat, leveling him with a skeptical gaze. “I didn’t mean to spill my slushee on you—it was an honest-to-god accident. I may be a dick, but I’m not _that_ much of a dick. If you want to, you can slap me again as payback. Also, if it’s any consolation, you’ve got one hell of an arm. My cheek was still red and sore all through Principal Campbell’s bitching,” he complimented in hopes of placating her. She held his gaze, deciding if he was being sincere or just pulling a trick on her before affirming, “You’re right; you _are_ a dick—but I’m not gonna slap you again—for all I know, you’re probably _into_ that sort of thing.”

“Heh! I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to be slapped by someone in a Zorro mask every now and then,” Dean confided, rubbing a hand along his neck. Y/N groaned as she massaged her right temple, fighting a blush as she argued, “I did _not_ need to know that.” “HEY! Quiet down back there,” ordered coach Hines. Y/N raised her hands in surrender to the man as she slightly slumped down in her desk chair, showing she meant no harm after coach Hines resumed reading, Y/N waited a few moments before slyly withdrawing her phone out of her faux leather jacket pocket. She played a game app with the volume on silent for a few minutes before her attention was pulled to the sound of Dean, clucking his tongue and making other distracting noises that signaled he had grown bored. Y/N’s gaze slowly lifted from her phone screen and languidly dragged over to him, her exasperated glare willing him to stop. Dean eventually looked her way, seeming to sense that he was being watched, and halted his actions when he saw her looking at him like an overworked parent of three. He awkwardly grinned and shrugged in apology, before clearing his throat and slumping down in his seat.

An hour passes and Y/N decides that she’s burnt out on app games. She had completed all her homework yesterday, the original reason for doing so being that she wanted to sleep in late today. However, she ended up being sentenced to rotting in this hellhole during the morning, so she might as well do something ‘productive’ for the rest of the day. Hmmm…what to do, what to do…she really regretted not bringing a book with her.

She peered over at Dean, finding him slumped over his desk asleep, with his forearms serving as a pillow. He seemed tolerable like this and—dare Y/N say it—beautiful. It was a shame it wouldn’t last. He would eventually wake up and go right on back to being a grade-A pest. It was unfair how attractive he was with his long eyelashes, vibrant green eyes, puffy lips, and strong jawline that could cut glass. People their age weren’t supposed to be this attractive; he should have at least had some baby fat from adolescence—or even a little acne in place of those adorable freckles he sported! Instead, he had the lean muscle and perfect, clear complexion most people don’t have until their mid-twenties. It was no wonder he was popular with all the girls in school—well, the ones who _swung_ that way, anyways. According to school gossip he could have—and did have—any girl he wanted—so why did he waste time he could be getting laid…annoying Y/N? The answer eluded her, especially after seeing the attractive, annoying asshole was capable of being somewhat civil with her, thus evidenced by this morning. It all just reaffirmed Y/N’s belief that the bastard thought it was a real riot making her blood boil. The urge to slap him once more suddenly became quite an appealing idea, regardless of how cute he looked while napping.

Y/N passed the remainder of detention observing the other students, guessing what they did to wind up stuck in a confining classroom on such a lovely Saturday morning. She gazed upon the trees and flowers to her right, outside—at one point becoming really enamored with a bee, until some asshole bird scared it off by nearly eating it. Just when she thought she was about to pass out from boredom, coach Hines’ booming voice dismissed everyone. Everyone seemed to race out of there like a swarm of bats out of hell, with Dean and Y/N being the last students to leave. The classroom was close to the building’s main entrance, so within less than a full minute Y/N is basking in the sunlight as she descends the main entrance stairs and onto the sidewalk. Her parents dropped her off this morning but decided on giving their own punishment for her outburst at school—leaving her to walk home. Dean, unsurprisingly, must have decided to extend his torment of her to the weekend because he falls into step at her side, nonchalantly inquiring, “Have any plans for the day?”

“I did—but they were ruined when you dropped your slushee down my backside.” “You’re not _still_ mad about that, are you? Cause the offer to slap me around still stands.” Y/N didn’t miss Dean’s hopeful smirk when she peered to the side. “Based on our earlier conversation, you’d probably enjoy that, so no thanks.” Dean shrugged before grinning out, “Guilty as charged.”

They walked for a moment along the sidewalk in silence before Y/N asked, “Don’t you have a car? Go drive that; quit bothering me.” “I would, but my dad took the keys away since I got detention—and what’s this about bothering you? I thought I was starting to win you over?” Without missing a beat Y/N snarked, “You were—but then you opened your mouth.” “Ha! Here I thought my lips were my best quality—or are my perky nipples more your style?”

Y/N’s face felt like it was on fire as she bit out, “You just live to push my buttons, don’t you?” “you caught me,” Dean confessed as he gave Y/N an appraising glance, drawling out in an increasingly deepening voice, “Although there’s a particular button of yours I’d love to push…and pinch and twist—definitely lick and suck.” After making this startling confession, his eyes returned to Y/N’s gaze with an intense, challenging glint in them.

 _Okay_ , Y/N did _not_ see this coming; it blindsided her—but to be fair, she was pretty obtuse/oblivious when it came to the dating scene. She once had to turn down a fellow-theatre classmate in tenth grade when her other classmates had explained to Y/N that the poor girl had been flirting with her for two-and-a-half months. She had just assumed that the girl was being nice and non-confrontational due to them being partners on a class project! Y/N also learned she had no gaydar whatsoever. It seems she would be continuing her tradition of misinterpreting people’s behavior.

Y/N huffed out an indignant breath as her cheeks continued to flush a bright pink. “Whatever prank you’re pulling…it’s not funny,” she distrustfully commented before striding away from Dean, boots slapping the sidewalk’s pavement with increasing speed. At her accusation, Dean’s smirk fell, morphing from shock to confusion as his leisurely stroll alongside Y/N had halted. He began striding to fall back into place by her side, his head tilting slightly as he stuttered, “Wh-what? Come again?” Without bothering to spare a glance over her shoulder at the befuddled teen, Y/N bitterly shot back, “You heard me damn well, Winchester,” with an exasperated roll of her eyes. Finally falling back into step with her, he nervously interjected, “Uh I think there’s been a mistake, sweetheart; I ain’t joking.”

“Oh yeah, so I’m supposed to believe that the guy who’s been acting like a dick to me for the past month-and-a-half just has a hard time expressing his _feelings_. The guy who’s bedding chicks left and right, lovin’-and-leavin’-‘em, suddenly has a crush that has made him revert back to elementary school when boys were mean to the girls they liked? Bullshit. The only relationship with me that you’re interested in is one where you make me cry!” her voice had cracked slightly at the utterance of this last sentence, her cheeks a vibrant crimson and her eyes misting over as she tried and failed to put distance between her and her tormentor. Damn his long bowlegs!

It was one thing for him to chuck paper at the back of her head—but to lie and try to toy with her like this? Un-fucking-believable.

“You’re sick, y’know that? Fucking sick! What kind of douchebag goes out of their way to pull a twisted prank like this?!” Y/N couldn’t stomach to look at the bastard as her mind raced through possible reasons for him to go so far as to play such a cruel joke on her. What had she done to him to deserve this? “How long have you had this fucked-up plan in the works? A week? Two? Or did you plan this from the very beginning? What the fuck do you take me for? Thinking you could bully me, then make me fall for my tormentor? Hate to burst your bubble but I’m not so pathetic that I fall for the first guy who throws some attention my way!” Y/N had tried to control her voice through her line of questioning—not give Dean the satisfaction of knowing he succeeded in hurting her—but it ended up wavering near the end. After weeks of ignoring him Y/N had snapped when she open-palm slapped him in the library. It came from a place of frustration—as did the rant she was spouting at Dean, but this time shock and hurt were the more prevalent emotions consuming her. All together it was the perfect recipe for a gross-sobbing session, but Y/N was doing her damnedest to keep from breaking down and showing Dean how much he affected her. As she had always done. As a tear began to crest over the top of her cheek, Y/N was twisted around by Dean’s right hand on her bicep to face him. He didn’t let go as he leveled her with an intimidating glare that stunned Y/N into silence.


End file.
